Menu

Poetry

Whether we have slept through Matins’ dream offices or lain awake,
we rise to a morning bell we do not call Lauds, and not calling it ablution,
we, for the day’s offices, flush dust and dead skin from our many creases.
On the highway and through the parking garage to a computer pinging
with the needs and even dreams of those to whom we minister, we carry
a grateful heart—or try to—and we labor at gratitude through the long
and exhausting offices we do not call Terces, Sexts, and Nones.
At Vespers we share with our bodies a meal not exactly a Eucharist,
and before the Compline bell rings, we indulge in bourbon, sex, or prayer,
and then lie down, thankful for tomorrow’s impossible offices.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

image of a woman and her shadow climbing upward a stone spiral staircase in a tower.

The Fire Tower

By

Carrie Jerrell

Winter Mother

By

Ava Leavell Haymon

blurry image of a woman looking at the camera and then looking away.

A Psalm to Say these Words until I Can Hear Them

By

Nicholas Samaras

Tenebrae

By

Anya Krugovoy Silver

Pin It on Pinterest